G. Edmondson - The Ship that Sailed the Time Stream

The only chart which promised to be of any use was #1400W. The Hydrographic Office’s pilot chart of the North Atlantic was printed on oiled silk and someone had been using it for a tablecloth. He scrubbed at the coffee stain which circumnavigated Ireland and tried to guess where they were.

If the knarr was two days northwest of the Orkneys there should be little danger. He fired up the fathometer for a moment to be sure they were beyond the hundred-fathom curve and decided to stay on a southwest course.

He went on deck to see if it was dark enough for a star sight. Someone was giggling in the darkness up near the bow.

“Just remember penicillin’s a thousand years away,” Joe said grimly. A sheep baa’d in the sudden silence.

He got his sight and made the correction, trying to remember if Polaris had been nearer or farther from true north a thousand years ago. A degree or so farther, he guessed. In any event, the Alice was on a latitude somewhere between the Orkneys and northern Scotland. Until he made a landfall and an arbitrary chronometer setting there would be no way to calculate longitude. He’d have to steer well west where there was less chance of piling into something after dark. Also, he decided, the farther west they ran, the less chance of running into more Vikings.

He left McGrath and Schwartz on deck. Howard McGrath, in addition to being a good steersman, was a Bible student. For reasons known only to God he was also a firm friend of Red Schwartz, whose main interests were fighting and boozing. Though they never made a liberty together, McGrath was always ready to put down his Bible and listen disapprovingly to Schwartz’s tales of high adventure.

Gorson and Dr. Krom were drinking coffee when Joe went below. “Well?” Dr. Krom asked.

“Well what?” Joe wished the old man would go soak his head.

“What’re we going to do?”

“I don’t know about you,” Joe grunted, “But I’m going to bed. May the Bureau of Ships have mercy on the man who wakes me before we sight something!”

He woke with a start as the Alice’s motion changed.

The short northern night was over and a bright sun hung high. He scrambled into his pants and rushed on deck. Spray wet him as they ploughed into a swell. An unhappy sheep was complaining in the bow. The wind had changed and the deck watch was sheeting in to make good. “Let her out a little,” Rate said. “Hold her south-southwest.”

Seaman Guilbeau looked worriedly at him. “Ain’t we headin’ for the States, sir?” he asked.

“No,” Joe growled, resisting a temptation to mimic the Cajun’s accent. “We’ll let the Indians fight it out among themselves.” He glanced at the sun. It would be at least six hours before he could get a noon shot. Even then it would be worthless, since he still didn’t know the date. There was probably some way to calculate a relation between noon shots and the star sight he’d taken last night but after a moment’s reflection Joe decided the mathematics was beyond him.

Gorson and Dr. Krom sat staring morosely into coffee mugs when he descended into the galley. They didn’t look like they’d changed position since last night. “All right,” he said to the CPO, “you may as well get everybody in here who’s not on watch.”

Gorson nodded and yelled his way through the forecastle. A minute later Ensign Rate faced the assembled ship’s company. “We have two problems,” he began. “To stay alive, and to get back to our own time. There’s no point in trying to go home. In the first place, there’s no Panama Canal so we’d have to make a passage around the Horn. Once back in San Diego we could spend our lives eating acorns and fraternizing with Digger Indians. Anyone want to?”

There were no volunteers.

“Now, we have a couple of scientists among us,” Joe continued.

“I’m an oceanographer,” Dr. Krom protested. “I know nothing of time travel.”

“Who does? We’re going to need peace and quiet—a place to experiment without having to fight off irate natives. The Tenth Century wasn’t noted for its hospitality, though. No matter where we go, we’ll wind up in some local feud or get ourselves burnt for witchcraft.”

The ship’s company looked unhappily at him.

“What do you suggest?” Dr. Krom asked.

“We need a harbor—preferably some island without local politics to worry us. Once we settle down, maybe we can figure things out.” Raquel sat at one end of the table, eying the proceedings with interest. She had changed to a cleaner and better fitting dress which, to masculine eyes, was not nearly so interesting.

“Were you considering Madeira?” Dr. Krom asked.

“I can’t remember whether or not it’s inhabited. The Canaries are out. They had an aboriginal population—I think they were called Gaunches. But Portuguese explorers found the Azores uninhabited 400 years from now. There’s anchorage, water, vegetation, and if worse comes to worse, we can raise mutton.” He looked about the table for signs of disagreement.

Lapham was somewhat greener than usual. “Isn’t there any land closer?” he asked plaintively.

“You need to get your mind off your stomach,” Joe suggested. “How about pooling your electronic talents with Rose? Maybe the two of you can come up with a wind charger.”

The conference broke up and sailors off watch went back to the sack. In spite of bright sunshine the weather was raw, with a dampness that penetrated even the newest pea jacket. At least they were driving south, Rate consoled himself. He wondered how soon they’d hit warmer weather. He wished desperately for a gyro compass, but the yawl had none. With radio direction finders navigation had been reduced to the simplest kind of plotting. Only now there were no beacons to plot from. He would have to check the compass deviation against the star for even the BuShips knew not how the magnetic pole had wandered since 1000.

The day wore on and the Alice drove steadily south, Raquel came on deck in still another dress, this time with a tight bodice and a skirt which flared to conceal her bare feet. Her hair was tortured into a saladlike crown of pins and brooches. “What’s that?” she inquired, pointing at Joe’s binoculars.

“They help me see farther.”

She grabbed them and put them to her eyes. The strap was still around Joe’s neck so she had to come very close. Her hair had a warm, clean smell which excited him as no perfumery ever could. Murderous savage, he told himself, but he let her lead him about by the strap as Raquel played with her new toy. If she remembered he was on the other end of the strap she gave no sign.

He was smelling her hair again when she shrieked and dropped the glasses. The strap gave Joe’s neck a gallows-thump and he guessed he should have warned her not to look at the sun. He helped her toward the scuttle, wondering how it would feel to carry her down a ladder but halfway there her eyes stopped smarting and she made the ladder under her own power. When he reached the galley she was gone.

Dr. Krom came down and drew a mug of coffee. He passed a hand through bushy white hair and stared morosely at Joe. After a moment he looked around and saw they were alone. “Was there something you wished to discuss in confidence?” he asked.

Joe shrugged. “I have no secrets.”

“But you take it so calmly,” the old man said. “Is this something which happens every day? You know, with these idiotic security regulations one can’t know what’s going on in other fields.”

Calm! Joe thought. As if every historian had a shot at getting this close to the Tenth Century! He couldn’t think of what to say to as … perceptive … a question as Krom’s, so he didn’t bother to reply. A short silence fell between them.